life, death, love and other forms of poetry by alcoholic poet

It's always winter. The cold doesn't forget. Stolen skins. Nor the things that died inside them. It's just snow. Until it isn't. And we shiver inside our empty houses. Telling stories about how cold it gets. In all this darkness.

With the windows open.

It gets warm sometimes, but the cold is never too far. We sweat. We chase the hot air as it seduces idle fists. Dirty mannequins. Lost in a world of windows. Seeing nothing. Seen by everything.

With the window open it's not as cold as it was. The world in heavy gulps. The chapel at her throat. Gods scrambling for understanding. Of the glass. This portal. This dismal throne. Through which everything submits. The winter. In failing prose. The snow in drifting poems. It was always this cold. I'm only now noticing.